


So Wait Up!

by ratpoet



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Season 2, cuteness, or maybe season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 08:03:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3888631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratpoet/pseuds/ratpoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn’t like Mickey collects random trivia about Ian. He doesn’t want to know little facts about Ian- the kind of music he likes, or the way he screws up his eyes right before sneezing, or how fucked up his family is. He doesn’t.<br/>But there’s one fact about Ian that he never wants to forget. Ian never, ever puts on his shoes without putting on his socks first. Never. It’s some kind of weird ass matter of principle or some shit. Not that Mickey cares- he just wishes he didn’t have to find out the hard way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Wait Up!

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the line _"you never wear shoes without your socks"_ from Wait Up by Tokyo Police Club.

It’s a hot sweaty summer day, the kind of day when melting into the floor never seems like much of a stretch, and all Mickey wants to do is fuck Ian. The streets are empty, the normally resilient South-Siders all driven indoors by the force of the sun, and Ian’s leading the way to the abandoned trailer in the scorching heat. Mickey can see where his shirt’s sticking to his skin in patches, can see the sheen of the sweat around the slight scratch on the back of his neck, the border between Ian’s tanned skin and the white winter skin below the place his rigid collar always juts into his neck. He can feel the stickiness on his own fingertips from the popsicle he practically inhaled an eternity ago, and knows Ian’s hands are sticky in the exact same spots, tongue the colour of a setting sun. Mickey can just imagine pushing his own tongue into Ian’s mouth, the taste of orange lollies mixing with watermelon, and the way Ian would stand stock still for a second, then push back with alarming force, his tongue hot and insistent. Mickey can imagine Ian curling his fingers into Mickey’s hair, and wrapping one arm around Mickey’s back, pulling him flush against himself.

Mickey doesn’t do anything, but he can imagine it. The image is there, at the back of his mind.

Ian turns around for a second, checking to see if Mickey’s still following, and flashes him a small smile when he sees he is. Mickey doesn’t return it, just licks his lips suggestively.

It’s already too late to do anything about it when they’re standing outside the trailer and Ian’s emptying his pockets looking for the bottle of lube he’s a hundred percent certain he put there.

“But it was here! I swear to God, Mickey!” Ian says.

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Yeah, and I guess it just vanished, huh?”

“You know, you _could_ give me some credit for always getting the lube. Just a suggestion,” Ian says, pissed.

“Except you fucking forgot it this time,” Mickey says, equally pissed. He just wants Ian to get on him. Is that so much to ask for?

Apparently, yes. As he discovers when Ian’s practically dragging him behind him to the nearby convenience store.

“You planning on both of us going in and buying lube together?” Mickey asks, incredulous.

“No, asshole. I'm planning on us _stealing_ lube together,” Ian says, smirking. “Shop’s closed on Tuesdays,” he adds with that smug look on his face, like he should get an award for knowing.

“Fucking badass, huh?” Mickey says, eyebrows raised playfully. He doesn’t think Ian ever got the hang of being a naïve kid stuck in the South side. He still has fucking morals, for Gods’ sake.

“You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first,” Ian scoffs. Mickey rolls his eyes, but follows Ian to the store anyway.

It’s a crappy store, even crappier than the Kash and Grab, all run-down and just asking to be robbed, what with the front window fucking propped open. Either Mickey’s luck is exceptionally good today, or the shop owners are really, really stupid. It’s probably the latter.

Mickey’s standing there patiently, waiting for Ian to make the first move, because he’s chivalrous like that (and also because he doesn’t need Ian to see him with his legs flailing around trying to reach the window, but that’s not important), when he notices Ian sitting on the ground, taking off his shoes.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” Mickey asks.

Ian gives him a withering look, then says, “Taking off my shoes- what do you think?”

“You trying to be a ninja or something?” Mickey asks. He can't think of any other explanation for Ian’s behaviour.

Ian doesn’t say anything, just proceeds to take off his socks- the same pair that, a long time ago, may have been a shade close to electric blue, but now just resembles dirty sewage water.

“Whatever, dickhead. You’re the one who’ll be stepping on the floor,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes.

Ian finally gets up, backs up a bit, and then tries to fucking leap through the window. He ends up banging his head on the sill instead.

“Not a word,” he warns Mickey, rubbing his forehead regretfully. Mickey just shrugs, mouth stretched into a wide grin. He doesn’t have to say anything.

This time, a subdued Ian quietly wriggles in through the window, like a fucking civilized human being. Mickey follows him, struggling a bit, but he gets in.

The store is dark, but the layout’s familiar to Mickey. Aisles and aisles of canned junk, dirty tiled flooring, counter squashed into the corner, and bars of chocolates arranged neatly on a rack. Mickey’s almost sure he’ll find a towelhead slinking around if he checks the back room.

Finding the lube isn’t the hard part. Neither is stuffing his pockets with Snickers.

The hard part starts with a guttural scream emanating from the back room that nearly startles Mickey out of his skin. Before he knows it, a mass of flesh is charging at him, screaming obscenities. Ian’s hiding behind a shelf, eyes wide with concern and regret, as he watches Mickey dodging to the side to escape the frothing woman. _Ian just had to poke the dragon, didn’t he?_ Mickey thinks balefully, as the woman realizes she’s lost her prey, and turns around and fixes her eyes on Ian instead. As she barrels towards him, there’s a moment when Mickey thinks Ian will just stay rooted in place, and Mickey will have to perform some kind of half-assed white-knight rescue, but thankfully it doesn’t come to that- Ian’s out of there so fast, Mickey’s actually surprised. They both make a beeline towards the window, Mickey urging Ian to climb faster, and nearly snagging his jeans when he tries to make up for the lost time. The woman’s screaming again, and Mickey has to admit- she has an impressive vocabulary, at least when it comes to profanity.

He jumps out of the window, emerging into the bright sunlight, and immediately starts sprinting as soon as his feet touch the ground, falling into the familiar rhythm of putting one foot after the other, _thud thud thud_ , putting as much distance as he can between himself and other people. It’s survival; basic instinct.

 He’s already halfway down the street when he realizes that Ian isn’t following. He debates just making a run for it, leaving Ian to face the woman’s fury, but he decides he’s too horny to ditch Ian yet. That’s absolutely the only reason.

In hindsight, he wishes he _had_ ditched Ian. Because the fucker is sitting calmly on the ground tying his shoelaces when Mickey reaches him, while the woman’s screaming muffled expletives with her butt and legs sticking out of the window.

“Will you fucking move?!” Mickey urges Ian, pulling on his arm, once he gets over the shock of the sight he’s just had to face.

“It’s fine, Mick- she’s stuck, look,” he says, pointing nonchalantly towards the window.

“Yeah, great, now can we get the fuck out of here, if you don’t mind?” Mickey says. The woman’s trying to wriggle out of the window- admittedly without much luck, but Mickey would really prefer not to push his luck.

“Okay, calm down,” Ian says, holding out his arms placatingly. Thankfully, though, he starts moving, so Mickey doesn’t say anything.

“You get the lube?” Mickey asks as they’re making their way down the street, walking slower than Mickey would like. But he’s next to Ian, so he doesn’t mind matching his pace with Ian’s, for once.

Ian stops and turns slowly to Mickey.

“I thought you had it?” Ian asks slowly.

They end up using spit instead.

-x-

Mickey still doesn’t know for sure how Ian talked him into the idea of fucking in the empty house on 6th street, though it probably had something to do with fucking on an actual bed for a change. And Mickey has to admit, the idea of not going home with scraped knees is appealing. So when Ian suggests they fuck in the supposedly ‘haunted’ house for the millionth time, Mickey agrees, eyes downcast. There’s only so much he can deal with, and Ian giving him those sappy looks is one thing he certainly can't deal with.

Mickey has to concede that it was a good idea on Ian’s part. The bed’s comfortable, just big enough so they can both fit, just small enough that Mickey can find an excuse for being pressed up so close against Ian. Mickey’s missed being able to press his knees into soft mattresses, and the feeling of scratchy blankets on bare skin, a warm cocoon away from the rest of the world.

They stay on the bed even after they're done, basking in the afterglow as Ian pulls on the first pair of boxers he can get his hands on (they're Mickey's, but he isn't complaining). Mickey picks up Ian's boxers from where they're wedged between the bed and Mickey's back, and pulls them on as Ian lights up a cigarette. The room is half in shadow, all sharp contrasts and soft orange light falling in through the windows, half the day wasted within these four walls with their cracked paint, but Mickey can't bring himself to care. In the half-light of dusk, Ian's face is lit up perfectly by the glow of the cherry, all the smile lines illuminated as his hair sways in the breeze, colour as deep and rich as the setting sun outside. He lies back down next to Mickey and passes him the stick, hands brushing in the process. Mickey thinks that if he had to exist in one moment forever, then this would be it, both of them lying on a soft bed in this empty house, all these possibilities before them, the summer stretching out indefinitely. He can imagine so many scenarios playing out next- they could get up, open another can of beer, go for round two in a while, they could put on their clothes and roam the streets until it grows too dark to see, they could go back to the store and share packets of crisps, could break into the neighbouring houses and divide the booty, could sneak into theatres and pelt each other with popcorn while watching crappy movies. So many options, and for a change, Mickey wants to explore all of them. He wants to know the sound of Ian's footsteps by heart, wants to feel his hands brushing against his own, wants to find out if Ian prefers barbeque or vinegar flavour. For the moment, though, Ian's smiling lazily at Mickey, his cheeks puffing out as he slowly exhales the smoke, and Mickey can tell he's trying to look cool, but all he does is look ridiculous instead, and Mickey can't bring himself to move.

So naturally, fate has other plans.

The silence between them is broken by the sound of the front door thudding open, as a high-pitched voice announces “I'm home!”

That’s enough to set Mickey into motion, as he jumps out off the bed and starts putting on clothes haphazardly. Ian mimics him, picking up clothes off the floor and from under the bed, and collecting the massive amount of trash they’ve managed to accumulate in such a short span of time and shoving it all under the bed. Mickey throws open the window, and weighs the pros and cons of jumping out as opposed to taking the back stairs and escaping from the kitchen door. In the end, he decides against it- he’s pretty sure he can land without breaking any bones, but he doesn’t trust Ian.

He holds his shoes in one hand and tugs Ian along with the other, as they enter the corridor. He can hear the footsteps getting louder, and he’s just about ready to get the fuck out of there.

If only it were that simple.

“What the fuck, Ian?!” Mickey exclaims, incredulous.

Ian looks up with raised eyebrows from where he’s sitting on the floor, putting on his fucking socks, and shrugs. “What?” he asks innocently.

“Can you just fucking put on your shoes so we can get the fuck out of here?” Mickey hisses out.

“I can't wear shoes without my socks,” he says calmly, proceeding to put on his shoes.

“Why the fuck not?!”

“It feels weird,” Ian shrugs.

“Yeah, no shit! But guess what, getting caught right now would feel even weirder!” Mickey snaps, in a tight whisper. The mystery person is almost on the landing by now. A few more seconds, and they’re done for.

“Oh, thank fuck!” Mickey says as Ian _finally_ gets up. He grabs Ian’s hand and pulls him along towards the back stairs hurriedly, but their escape is interrupted by a woman’s voice, shouting ‘ _what the fuck!_ ’

They both freeze. Mickey’s just about to make a run for it, but then Ian turns around to face their opponent and Mickey has no choice but to follow suit.

“What the fuck?!” the woman repeats, mystified, setting down two plastic bags gingerly on the floor and whipping out a can of pepper spray from one of them before either of them can process what’s happening. Both of them automatically lift up their arms in surrender.

“Don’t you fucking try anything on me!” she shouts. “Or I will spray your fucking asses! And trust me, it hurts like a _bitch_ ,” she adds menacingly, her hands trembling a bit, but Mickey can tell she means business by the way she’s holding the can out, ready to fire at any moment.

She reminds him of Mandy.

“I'm going to repeat my question and I want an answer this time- what the _fuck_?” she asks, shaking the can in warning.

“Carpenting,” Ian blurts out. Both Mickey and the woman turn to look at him like he’s crazy. Mickey’s starting to suspect he might be.

“We were carpenting,” Ian says, gaining confidence. “Because of the, uh, termites,” Ian explains.

“Carpenting?” she asks, eyeing him up and down suspiciously.

Mickey looks down at himself for any evidence of wrongdoing lingering around, only to find that his tank top is inside out and he’s put his jeans on backwards.

He inches slowly behind Ian.

“Yeah,” Ian says. Apparently he’s out of ideas.

“And who called you?” she asks, wrinkling her nose in distrust.

“The, uh, the tall guy,” Ian supplies. “Gave us the keys and everything.”

It’s a good thing Mickey only picked open the lock while sneaking in, instead of breaking down the door, as he was tempted to do.

“Chris?” she asks, eyes widening.

“Yeah, Chris,” Ian latches on thankfully.

“Fine, wait here,” the lady says, lowering the can carefully. She slowly moves towards the bedroom. Mickey heaves a sigh of relief, as he realizes they might actually get out of this alive. It doesn’t last too long though, as a shriek pierces the air.

Mickey and Ian turn towards each other with twin expressions of horror.

_Oh, shit. The condoms._

Then they get the fuck out of there.

-x-

“What are you doing?” Ian asks suspiciously, sneaking up behind Mickey barefoot. It was surprisingly easy to get him out of shoes- Mickey’s starting to suspect Ian really likes showing off his pretty pink feet.

Mickey would be pissed by Ian’s untimely interference, but his work’s nearly done, and he’s quite pleased with the result. He wipes his hands on his jeans and puts the bottle of superglue back in his pocket.

“Helping you out,” Mickey replies, stepping back and surveying his handiwork proudly.

“Mickey, what the fuck?!” Ian shrieks, as he gets a clear view of his shoes. He moves forward silently and gingerly pokes the socks now stuck to the inside of his shoes.

“You’re the one who won't let go of your stupid obsession with not wearing shoes without socks,” Mickey says, shrugging. Ian doesn’t reply, just stares at his shoes in disbelief.

“You can't get us caught anymore,” Mickey says, with a smug grin.

“ _Almost_ caught,” Ian says quietly, still a little in shock.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey waves his hand dismissively. “Go ahead, try them on,” he says, still grinning. Ian’s still staring at his shoes like they’re someone’s corpse, but Mickey’s words spur him into action, as he silently sits down on the floor and manoeuvres his feet into the socks.

He gets up and walks around a bit, his feet twisted upwards slightly, like a supermodel practising her posture.

“So how is it?” Mickey asks.

“Okay…I guess,” Ian says doubtfully. It’s actually comfortable, surprisingly, but Ian’s not about to give Mickey the satisfaction.

“You’re welcome, asshole,” Mickey says, smug grin firmly in place. If Ian can learn how to speak the Secret Language of Mickey, then Mickey sure as hell can read between the lines with Ian too.

Ian makes a face at Mickey, then sits back down and starts pulling his shoes off.

Except they don’t come off.

“What the fuck?” Ian says, pulling at his shoes harder.

“You can't even take your shoes off?!” Mickey asks incredulously. He moves forward to help the idiot out, but no amount of tugging and pulling helps.

“What kind of glue did you use?” Ian asks, just as Mickey backs slowly away, having connected the dots already.

“Superglue,” he says carefully, trying to hold his laughter in.

“Mickey!” Ian shouts, face horrified. Mickey tries to look innocent, but he can't help it- a peal of laughter escapes anyway. And that’s it, in two seconds flat, Mickey’s doubled up on the floor, laughing so hard he forgets to breathe, and ends up choking on air.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Ian asks, exasperated, as he gives his right shoe one last pull. It doesn’t budge.

**Author's Note:**

> All feedback is appreciated :)
> 
> I'm on tumblr @ fiandvee.tumblr.com so come talk to me anytime


End file.
